Thursdays At Eight

  Oh, dear, I’m sinking to a new low. Self-pity. No. I won’t allow it. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. Action must be taken and quickly.

  To complicate matters, I’m convinced that Sean Jamison is partly responsible for this unwelcome and unappreciated epiphany. Rumor has it he’s dating the new physical therapist.

  I couldn’t care less.

  Obviously that’s a lie—I do care—otherwise I wouldn’t be writing about it. Nor has it escaped my notice that the woman is twenty years his junior and nearly thirty years mine. Naturally Sean finds her attractive. What man wouldn’t? She’s young, pretty and probably defers to him. I, on the other hand, am older (though maybe not wiser) and I have wrinkles. No contest there. Not that I’m interested in competing for Sean.

  Really, it doesn’t even make sense that I care. He isn’t seeking what you’d call a meaningful relationship. He’s attracted to me; he’s made that plain and I have to admit I’m flattered. Truth be known, I’m attracted to him, too. I wish I wasn’t, because it’s clear that this is destined to be a dead-end relationship—if a relationship at all. Sean just wants me to blindly fall into bed with him.

  Unfortunately I can’t do that and be comfortable with myself. There’s only been one man in my life and after thirty-one years with Steve, I can’t get involved with a man who’s looking for a bout of casual sex. To me, it has to mean more than a few hours of pleasure. I can’t change the woman I am, even for Sean Jamison.

  I shouldn’t feel this disappointed. To his credit, Sean has been forthright about what he wants, but I’d hoped for something different from him. I’ve always believed there was real depth to the man. Apparently I was wrong.

  In an effort to boost my spirits, I phoned Amy after breakfast. My Sunday-morning chats with my daughter and grandchildren are often the highlight of the weekend for me.

  As always, the conversation made me feel better. I told her I’d decided to be a volunteer reader at the Juvenile Detention Center and Amy applauded my decision. Getting out and doing something positive for the community is bound to improve my frame of mind.

  Amy asked about the breakfast group and I was able to give her an update on everyone. She hasn’t met any of these women who’ve become my friends, but she likes to hear about them whenever we talk. I think Amy wishes she could be part of such a group.

  After I’d chatted with Andrew and Annie, I thought about my Thursday-morning friends. They’re more than that, of course; it’s just a quick way to distinguish them from my other friends. We’re each at a completely different point in our lives, and yet there are similarities, too. I see myself in Clare’s anger and grief, in Karen’s passion, in Julia’s sense of domesticity and order. And do they see their future selves in me? I think they must. I also think these friendships have become the truest and deepest I have.

  I’m so thankful I met Clare, Karen and Julia. I need my friends, and never more than now.

  “The only thing that seems eternal and natural in motherhood is ambivalence.”

  —Jane Lazarre

  Chapter 11

  JULIA MURCHISON

  January 26th

  List of Blessings

  A clean kitchen.

  A bathroom close to the bed.

  Truth…whether I want to face it or not.

  Dark clouds that match my mood.

  My family.

  Last night, I didn’t come home until after ten. By that time Peter and the kids were worried sick. The minute I walked into the house, Adam flew into the kitchen and demanded to know where I’d been. He sounded like an outraged parent. Talk about role reversal. Zoe was next; she burst into tears, stormed back into her room and slammed the door. Then Peter laid into me—only he didn’t utter a word. He simply looked at me, and his expression said it all. He was furious with me for having worried them. He stomped out, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  I sat there for another hour. Had any of my family come in to listen, I would’ve told them exactly what I’d been doing. Driving around. After closing the shop, I left the strip mall and drove through town. I followed long, winding streets with no destination in mind, and then headed out to the highway. I went as far as McDonalds, where I had milk and a muffin, and turned back.

  Peter was as upset as the children, but surely he of all people could understand why I did what I did. I couldn’t look my children in the eye knowing I’m pregnant.

  While I was driving around, I found myself at the cemetery for some oddball reason. My grandparents are buried there, but I barely remember them so I don’t feel any deep connection. It probably had more to do with the way I was feeling. As if my life, the one I’ve been so careful to plan and nurture, is over. Corny symbolism, I know, but that’s how depressed I felt.

  Options are available to me. I’m well aware of what they are. I only wish I was the kind of woman who could walk into a clinic and be done with it, get rid of the burden. I never dreamed I’d even consider such a possibility. At first, the appeal of it was strong. No one need ever find out. Peter, of course. He wouldn’t like it, would try to change my mind, but I know my husband and he wouldn’t stop me. I thought about it, I really did. Even now, when I can be completely and totally honest, I can’t make myself write the word.

  An easy solution is what it sounds like, and for some women it might be the answer, but not me. I know myself too well. I hate that I’m pregnant, but I won’t undo what’s already been done.

  Adam and Zoe realized something was wrong, but they seemed to think Peter and I had had a disagreement. I’m always home for them in the evenings. They’re accustomed to having dinner on the table and me there to help with homework and to chat. Both of them were upset with me. Peter was, too. Later, when he’d cooled down, he asked if I’d eaten dinner and I told him yes. He said he’d ordered pizza for the kids. I went to bed and Peter came and asked if there was anything he could do. I told him no.

  I thought of calling Georgia, but didn’t. Much as I love her, I just don’t know how to tell her about this. She’s been married four times, twice to the same man, and she’s childless. How could she understand what I’m feeling?

  I could talk to the women in the breakfast group—except that I’m not ready. I’ll tell them in a few weeks.

  I wonder if the baby senses how much I don’t want to be pregnant. Adam and Zoe were gifts; not this baby.

  Is it wrong to hope I miscarry? The fact that I’m almost forty might mean the baby’s at risk. There’s a far higher chance of birth defects. Oh, God, I can’t think about that now.

  I feel so guilty and ashamed. Mostly I feel miserable.

  Julia sat in her rocking chair, knitting by rote as her mind rapidly spun its thoughts. Thankfully, business had been slow all afternoon. The success of her shop was largely a result of the personal service she gave her customers, many of whom had become friends. Women—and a few men—visited her store; they trusted her advice and sought her opinion concerning their creative efforts.

  Today, though, the quality of her service wasn’t exactly what it should have been.

  Preoccupied as she was, Julia found herself prone to mistakes. Irene Waldmann had certainly pointed that out. The older woman was a regular customer, and earlier that day Julia had made an error in calculating how much yarn she needed for her latest project. Mrs. Waldmann had noticed and complained at length. The woman’s gruff personality made her hard to please, anyway, and she wasn’t the type who would tolerate mistakes. Luckily, it’d been discovered early.

  A car pulled into the parking space in front of her shop window and Julia glanced up to see Peter. They’d barely spoken that morning. Her husband and children had tiptoed around her as if they weren’t sure what to expect.

  As soon as they were out the door, Julia’s stomach went queasy and the little coffee she’d managed to down was lost in a quick dash to the bathroom. This morning sickness was far worse than she’d experienced during the previous two pregnancies.

  Maybe it
was the baby’s revenge for being unwanted.

  When he walked into the store, Peter presented her with a bouquet of yellow daisies, her favorite flowers.

  “To what do I owe this?” she asked, hating the edge in her voice but unable to hide it.

  “I came to see how you’re feeling.”

  She jerked on the yarn, pulling it unnecessarily hard. “Just great.”

  Peter took the empty rocker next to hers. If he’d tried to talk, forced her into a conversation, she might have been able to maintain her ugly mood. Instead he sat with her, gently matching his rocking motion to hers, the flowers in his lap, and said nothing. Not a word.

  “This is God’s big joke, you know,” Julia whispered after a moment. “My word, I mean.”

  “Your word,” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”

  “My word for the year,” she snapped, thinking it was obvious. He knew everyone in the breakfast club had chosen a word.

  “Oh, you’re talking about your friends from the journal-writing class. You told me what your word was, but I’ve forgotten.”

  Fearing she was about to break into tears, she just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Was it surprise?” he asked.

  This was his idiotic attempt at humor, she assumed. Another time, she might have found him amusing, but not in her current mood.

  “Gratitude,” she managed.

  “Gratitude,” he said slowly.

  “Funny, isn’t it?”

  He stopped rocking and placed his hand on her forearm. Julia continued knitting, afraid that if she stopped now she’d crumble completely.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You’re right, this is my fault.”

  “And mine…I should have— I don’t know. Oh, Peter, I feel so awful, so guilty and ashamed.”

  “What did you do that’s so terrible?” he asked, and rubbed his hand down her arm.

  “I don’t want this baby! I can’t even think of it as a baby. Every child deserves to come into a loving home.”

  “I love the baby,” he said.

  He might have thought he was comforting her, but he wasn’t. “Fine, you go ahead and love the baby. I don’t. Maybe you should waltz on down to The Baby Emporium and stroll through the aisles and be happy. I’m not! And hearing you tell me how pleased you are isn’t helping a damn bit.” Her voice rose until she was close to yelling.

  “Sorry,” he said and raised both hands. “You’re right. I won’t say anything more.”

  “What are we going to do?” she wailed. “How will we cope?” She hoped he had some answers because she was completely out.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “Neither do I.”

  They rocked a few more minutes while Julia knit, periodically tugging at the yarn, her fingers moving with confidence. She was working on a mohair sweater to display in the store. Maybe it should’ve been booties or a little blanket, she thought darkly, but even looking at the baby yarn was beyond her.

  “Do you think we should tell the kids?” he asked.

  Julia couldn’t believe he’d pose such a question. “Absolutely not!”

  He didn’t respond for a long moment. “The only reason I ask is because they were both so worried about you last night,” he finally said. “You should have phoned.”

  “I know.” She did feel bad about upsetting her family.

  “Adam and Zoe are old enough to recognize when something’s wrong. I think we should tell them. They have a right to know.”

  In other circumstances she would have agreed with him, but not now. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if I miscarry? I could, you know. I’m going to be forty soon…and when you’re older, the risk of a miscarriage is much higher.”

  “I realize that, but the baby might be perfectly okay, too. There’s at least an equal chance of that.”

  “Still, this pregnancy isn’t a sure thing, so we shouldn’t say anything yet,” she said, holding on to her one hope of escape. She wouldn’t do anything to terminate the pregnancy, but if nature should take its course…

  “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy about all this,” Peter murmured.

  “I’m sorry, too,” and Julia was, more than she cared to admit.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything will work out. Somehow or other.”

  “Somehow or other,” Julia echoed. She wished she could feel differently about this baby. Her husband loved children. If it’d been his decision alone, they would have had a houseful of kids.

  Peter glanced at his watch. “I’ll head home and get dinner started.”

  Julia nodded.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.

  A moment later, the door shut behind him. Julia tossed a ball of yarn at it.

  Just as she was ready to close for the day, Georgia strolled in, sparking with her usual energy. They were cousins and best friends and about as opposite as any two women could be. In high school, Julia was the student-body president and class brain. Georgia was the flighty cheerleader with more beauty than common sense. She flitted in and out of marriage every few years, the way some people bought a new car. But despite their differences Georgia was the one person Julia knew she could trust.

  “So. What’s going on?” Georgia asked loudly, arms spread wide, bracelets clanking. Her cousin always made an entrance. It was her trademark. Everyone expected it of her.

  “What—what do you mean?” Julia couldn’t imagine how Georgia had heard her news.

  “I haven’t talked to you all week.” Her cousin stood before her, hands now resting on her hips. “Must be something happening.” Georgia’s long blond hair was artfully arranged atop her head, with tendrils dangling down in all the right places. She was dressed in loose black clothes and heavy silver jewelry and looked stunning.

  “I’m pregnant,” Julia blurted out. She couldn’t tell her mother, her sister or her own children, but felt no such compunction when it came to Georgia.

  Georgia responded by sinking into the rocker recently vacated by Peter.

  “Pregnant?” she repeated as though it was a foreign word whose meaning she wasn’t quite sure of. “As in baby?”

  Julia covered her face with both hands and burst into tears.

  “Oh, Julia, you’re not joking, are you?” Georgia got to her feet and grabbed her purse, spilling half the contents. Makeup, a hairbrush and loose change rolled across the table. “Damn, I need a cigarette.”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “I did, I’m down to five a day.” She found what she was looking for, placed the low-tar low-nicotine cigarette between her lips and flicked her lighter. Stepping to the door, she took one deep puff, aiming a stream of smoke outside, then frowned at the cigarette. “I swear these things are giving me a hernia.”

  “It was an accident,” Julia explained.

  “All pregnancies are accidents,” Georgia insisted. “What did Peter say?”

  “He’s thrilled.”

  “Naturally,” she snorted and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. Leaning against the doorjamb, she waved her free hand toward the bouquet of daisies lying on the counter. “Peter?”

  Julia nodded.

  “I should’ve known.”

  Reaching for a tissue, Julia loudly blew her nose. “I haven’t told anyone else—other than Peter.”

  “I was pregnant once,” Georgia said.

  “When?” They’d been close all these years, and this was the first she’d ever heard of it.

  “Hell, I was just a kid.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not a damn thing. I lost the baby shortly after I married Ernie. I never would’ve married him otherwise.”

  Ernie was Georgia’s first husband. The marriage lasted all of two years, if that. Georgia had still been a teenager and Ernie was only a few years older.

  “I always liked E
rnie,” she said with some regret. “But neither of us was cut out to be a parent.”

  Georgia rarely talked about her marriages, but Julia knew that Ernie had broken her heart. He’d managed a restaurant and apparently had something sweet going on the side with the pastry chef. The minute Georgia found out, the marriage was over. She’d married on the rebound—a mechanic, who had an affinity for the bottle. That marriage had turned into a love-hate relationship. When they were getting along, it was very good, and when they were on the outs, it was a free-for-all. They’d married and divorced twice before Georgia met her third and current husband. She and Maurice had been married a year and Julia hadn’t seen him even once since the ceremony. She didn’t know much about him, but Georgia appeared to be happy and that was all that mattered.

  When she’d finished dabbing the moisture from her eyes, Julia glanced up and was stunned to see the tears trailing down Georgia’s cheeks.

  “Damn, I need a cigarette,” she sniffled. She tended to punctuate her conversation with that remark.

  “You have one in your hand.”

  “A real cigarette,” Georgia said. “These aren’t worth shit.” Leave it to her cousin to make her smile. Julia started to laugh then, and soon Georgia was laughing, too. Without a pause, they were both weeping again, the border between laughter and tears invisible.

  “Unbosom yourself,” said Wimsey. “Trouble shared is trouble halved.”

  —Dorothy Sayers

  Chapter 12

  THURSDAY MORNING BREAKFAST CLUB